


When Harry Met Sally

by destinationtoast



Series: Bumblebeeverse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Christmas, F/F, Family, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 05:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Harry meets Sally and falls for her, John brings Sherlock home for a Watson family Christmas for the first time, and there are murders and awkward holiday moments enough to go around.  (Sequel to May Your Heart Purr Like a Bumblebee)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Harry Met Sally

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to [May Your Heart Purr Like a Bumblebee](http://archiveofourown.org/works/781309?view_full_work=true); while not strictly necessary to read that one first, there are a few references in here that won't make sense without it.

It is entirely John's fault, when it happens. 

At least, that would be Sherlock’s assertion. “Of course we need the nutmeg grater, John. It’s unthinkable that you would leave it at Baker Street at a time like this.”

“Well, I didn’t even know we had one. How was I supposed to know we would need it at the crime scene?” 

“Obvious,” Sherlock says dismissively as the Met stands around and watches them, foiled in their attempts to proceed at crime-solving. Under their joint scrutiny, John begins to sweat and has a moment of wondering if maybe his parents were remiss when teaching him etiquette, and if maybe a nutmeg grater is something that any proper young man should care on his person. Nevermind that it’s not clear to him why exactly the nutmeg grater is his responsibility specifically -- aside from the fact that expecting Sherlock Holmes to be responsible for anything is a fool’s hope.

Sherlock Holmes is the kind of man who can make you doubt your own sanity when it comes to kitchen implements. Among other things.

Of course there’s nothing for it but to get the grater, but they’re miles away from home at this point. And so John thinks it rather a stroke of genius when it occurs to him to call Harry -- who still has the key to their flat -- instead of going all the way back for it himself.

He continues to think that right up until the point when Harry -- after climbing out of the cab and wordlessly handing John the nutmeg grater, where it is instantly snatched by Sherlock -- spots Sally.

“Who’s that?” she asks John. 

He looks at the way Harry’s eyes are traveling up and down and narrows his eyes. “That’s Sally Donovan,” he says. “Detective Sergeant Donovan. Not worth your time.” He makes a face. “Anyway, she’s straight and unavailable.”

Harry nods. “You sure about that last bit?”

He’d meant she was unavailable because she was Sally, and therefore a work colleague of sorts, and also not a nice person. But, “Yeah, she’s been dating Anderson for ages.” He nods toward Anderson, standing on the other side of the body.

“Not anymore, I think,” Harry says.

“What?”

“She looks sad. And she’s standing as far away from him as she can without leaving the perimeter, and trying not to make eye contact. And look -- he just glanced in her direction, and she pulled her coat tighter around her.”

“Huh, I guess so,” John says with a shrug.

Harry rolls her eyes. “C’mon, if Sherlock had said that, it would have elicited a ‘brilliant’, at least.” 

“All right, maybe. Anyway, she’s rather nasty, and you shouldn’t --” But Harry is already turning on her heel and walks briskly toward Sally. He thinks about stopping her, but realizes that he doesn’t have to worry about it, as Sally is the world’s prickliest person.

“I bet you have a beautiful singing voice,” Harry says to her. John wonders where Harry got such a sappy line, and what on Earth makes her think it’s going to work.

“What?” Sally says, startled, turning with a polite but confused smile.

“Can you sing?”

“Um… no?” There’s a hint of baffled laughter in Sally’s voice now. “I have about the most imperfect pitch you could imagine.”

“Oh, thank God,” Harry grins. “You were going to show me up in tonight’s Karaoke Till You Drop competition, if you did. Me and my mates are down a team member at the last minute -- will you come save us?” 

Sally is unmistakably laughing as she says, “Who are you?” But she’s nodding, too. This isn’t good. 

As Sherlock makes use of the grater and rattles off deductions, only Lestrade is paying close attention. John and Anderson are both watching in dismay as Harry pulls the pen from Sally’s notebook and writes her number on Sally’s hand. 

“I’m the Watson you wish you knew,” Harry says with a grin, handing the pen back. “Harry,” she says, shaking the hand she just wrote on.

“Well that’s a low bar,” Sally says with a wry glance that sweeps across John and Sherlock, treating them as a single unit. (Which, all right, is maybe mostly fair.)

Harry snorts. “Tell me about it!” John wants to protest that it’s all well and good for her to tease him in private, but that she has a duty as his sister to stick up for him in front of others. Especially Sally. But he can’t, because the sheer improbability of everything transpiring in front of him just now has frozen his brain. And so he just stares as Harry gives Sally’s hand a last lingering squeeze and says, “You must come, though. We need you desperately, and I promise it’ll be fun.”

Sally laughs again. “All right. If I can get away later, maybe I will.” She’s shaking her head in an “I must be mad” sort of way, a way that people often do when Harry is involved, but the way her eyes follow Harry amusedly on her way back to the cab says that she’s likely to do it.

John’s stunned silence is broken a moment later by Sherlock, who has finally noticed that his audience is insufficiently attentive. John absentmindedly utters superlatives in Sherlock’s general direction while debating what to do next. 

He thinks about warning Sally not to date his sister. But that would come across a bit weird, wouldn’t it? Since Sally is straight and of course won't be thinking about it as a date. He consoles himself with the fact that there’s really no question that Sally is straight and therefore couldn’t possibly be thinking about it as a date. Not that that has entirely prevented Harry from being successful in the past.

John is still worried about it when Harry calls him a few minutes later.

Sherlock is in his mind palace now and has shooed everyone away, so John walks around the corner and answers his phone. “When will you be done with the crime scene, do you think?” she asks.

“I think we’ll probably wrap up here by six or seven,” he says, glancing at where the late November sun would be starting to dip below the horizon if it weren’t for the thick layer of clouds obscuring it. 

“Oh, perfect!” Harry says, and John feels a bit less annoyed with her as he hears the enthusiasm in her voice. 

“Yeah -- you want to come over for dinner and coffee, after?” They can catch up, which will be nice, and then he can point out exactly why pursuing Sally would be a terrible idea.

“Don’t be daft, John,” she says. “I’m busy. But that gives me just enough time to call my rugby mates and find a few for a karaoke competition!”

His goodwill evaporates. “She’s off limits, Harry.” She doesn’t respond. “And anyway, I told you, she’s straight.” 

“Yeah, just like you, Little Brother,” she says merrily. “Oh, and you’re welcome for coming all the way across London with your cheese grater, by the way. Bye now!”

“Nutmeg,” he snaps irritably at the dead connection, despite the fact that he’d remained blissfully ignorant of nutmeg graters himself until this afternoon.

* * *

When things really go pear-shaped, though, it’s all Sherlock’s fault.

“Sherlock,” John says exasperatedly, setting down the shopping bags. “You were supposed to be cleaning up the flat, not spreading your experiments everywhere. Christmas party tonight, remember?” Well, more of an early-December party, this year — Mrs. Hudson is planning a trip to Florida to visit friends (“plus the heat is good for my hip, you know”), and will be leaving soon. And it just wouldn’t do to have the party without Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, doesn’t budge from his repose upon the sofa. John looks at the clutter on every conceivable surface -- and not just the horizontal ones, this time; Sherlock has somehow managed to festoon most of the vertical surfaces with plant matter, though mostly not of a recognizably seasonal variety -- sighs, and begins to clean up.

“Don’t touch the plants,” Sherlock says, without looking up. “Drying.” And so John cleans up everything else, and then tries to obscure the riotous assortment of plants a bit with Christmas lights, although obfuscation via lights might not be an entirely successful strategy, he must admit.

Still, by the time people arrive -- after he has put out the biscuits and the punch and the authentic, store-bought, home-spiced eggnog (which required sterilizing the nutmeg grater to get the crime scene off of it before putting it to its apparent intended use), and gotten himself and Sherlock dressed into their most festive clothing (which required promising Sherlock a blowjob if he would get up off the couch and please put on something other than a sheet) -- he is feeling fairly happy with their flat, and their friends, and the world, and the fact that he managed to accidentally triple the amount of alcohol in the Christmas punch recipe thanks to Sherlock returning the favor as he tried to prepare the food.

His grin remains until Sally arrives.

“What are you doing here?” They’re not the words he might have chosen under other circumstances. Circumstances under which he was not already filled with three glasses of punch.

Her tentative smile drops from her face. “Nice to see you, too,” she says. Then, “Harry invited me.”

“She can’t,” John says. “Not her party. Not her flat.” He’s dimly aware that he may be sounding more like a jerk than he likes to think of himself being. More than he really means to sound -- he’s not trying to tell her to leave so much as pointing out the logical impossibility of Harry having invited her. But it’s just so hard to remember how to be polite, or use complete sentences, at the moment.

“Right, I’ll just go, then.” She looks round the room briefly -- for Harry, probably, but she’s not here yet -- then nods and turns toward the door. 

“Well, hello, dear!” Mrs. Hudson says, coming out from the kitchen and pulling Sally into a hug. “What a nice surprise! You’re that detective, aren’t you? How exciting! Come along, and let’s get you something to eat and drink.” 

With a final awkward glance at him, Sally is whisked away by the force of nature that is Mrs. Hudson in her native hosting environment. John is still standing there in the entry and listening to Mrs. Hudson warn Sally, over her attempted polite protests, “John is a lovely young man, and I wouldn’t blame you a bit if you have a crush on him, but he’s taken, you know,” when Harry arrives.

She’s breathless as she strips out of her coat and scarf. “Sorry, Little Brother. There was a Tube delay. Sally here yet? Ah, nevermind, I hear her.”

“You can’t invite her,” John informs her as she treats him as her personal coat rack.

“Ah, but clearly I can, as I did,” she says cheerfully. She drapes her scarf over his shoulder and adds her gloves to the growing pile of clothing in his arms.

“My party,” he notes.

“I see you’ve been at the punch,” she notes with a grin. 

Something occurs to him. “Special punch. For you. Fridge. Eggnog, too.”

Harry kisses him on the cheek. “Thanks, love. Anyway, when has it being your party ever stopped me before?” 

He thinks back to past parties, including one memorable time in uni when she visited him and ended up inviting his ex-girlfriend to his party and hooking up with her. “But why?” he asks plaintively. “Why did you invite her?”

“Because the idea of her spending her time alone at this time of the year, moping over a stupid ex-boyfriend who cheated on his wife and then cheated on her and was never worth her time anyway, when she could be at a party with friends instead, is frankly appalling.” 

John is slowly nodding, and feeling like a bit of a bastard, and feeling like he hasn’t given Harry enough credit, and feeling rather warm and fuzzy toward his sister and even the tiniest bit toward Sally, when Harry adds, “And because from the way she looked at me when I sang ‘Lay Down, Sally’ to her last week at karaoke, I think I might be getting laid tonight!” It’s the punch’s fault that John continues to nod for a bit after she says this. He fails to properly process the sentence until after Harry has walked off toward the kitchen, leaving him clutching the greater part of her clothing by volume and sputtering belatedly.

John is now actively worried, and angry at Harry for pursuing this without even bothering to find out why he thinks she shouldn’t. He keeps meaning to pull her aside again, but apologizing for the inappropriate things Sherlock says to guests and coaxing him into playing the violin so that he won’t say as many more inappropriate things (without being able to resort to any of his most persuasive techniques) is a full-time job. He does, however manage to end up alone with Sally again at one point, which is awkward and unintentional and entirely the punch’s fault, as they both head into the kitchen for a refill at the same time.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to say you shouldn’t be here. I was just surprised. But you’re welcome at the party, of course.”

“Thanks,” she says, looking down at her empty cup studiously. “I do appreciate it.” She sounds less certain of herself in this environment, is less self-assured, than he’s ever seen her. He’s glad Greg is also at the party.

“Yes, well.” He can’t quite bring himself to say, “Glad you’re here,” not after the way she’s treated Sherlock over the years. He’s too wise to say, “Glad you stopped shagging Anderson,” though he is. And the last round of punch has worn off too much for him to blurt, “Please don’t shag my sister, if you’re thinking about it.” So instead, he just says, “Right. Um, more punch, then.”

“Yes, please.” He refills both their cups. 

“There’s no eyeballs in this, right?” She asks as he hands hers back.

He wants to react like it’s an unreasonable question, but it’s really not. “Nope. Made it myself. No eyeballs, guaranteed.”

“I’ll just stay away from the microwave then, and I should be safe?” If it were anyone else, the line would draw a laugh from him. But all he can think of is the drugs bust where she found the eyeballs. The one she volunteered for. And he remembers how “freak” was the second word out of her mouth, when Sherlock introduced them, and none of it makes him feel much like laughing. So he just presses his lips together in an approximation of a smile, says, “Yeah,” and then they gratefully part ways.

After that, he mostly watches Harry and Sally from afar; they always seem to be on the other side of the crowd. Which is funny, because the “crowd” is mostly just Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Greg, and the Stamfords. Still, somehow Harry -- he suspects it’s Harry’s doing -- manages to steer them to the farthest point in the room from John at any given point in time, so all John can do is watch.

John is aggravated to see Harry flirting -- and somewhat perturbed to see Harry using some of his flirting moves on Sally (or did he get them from her?). He’s even more alarmed to be getting some new ideas from her. 

Not, as Sherlock pulls him aside and reminds him rather forcefully in the stairwell, that he will be using said techniques on anyone. Of course not. He does his best to reassure Sherlock that he is only interested in new flirting methods in an abstract, theoretical sort of way, as Sherlock shoves John face first against the wall (from which vantage point the wallpaper pattern is really rather alarmingly large, though he’s never really noticed it previously), growls statements of ownership in his ear, and bites the back of his neck to emphasize his point.

John does his best to placate Sherlock, then heads back into the party to have a firm word with Harry about how she really, really shouldn't be deploying said flirting techniques either, at least in present company.

"Did you know you have SH spelled out in love bites on the back of your neck?" Harry asks, offering him a snowman biscuit. 

John yelps and claps a hand over the back of his neck, looking around to see if anyone else is near enough to have seen. Sally is fortunately in the loo, and nobody else is immediately behind them. "I wouldn't have guessed he was so precise with his mouth. Nice technique. Lucky." She bites the head off the proffered snowman after John ignores it.

John groans. “Oh, God. I have got to go find a turtleneck… do I even own a turtleneck? Or maybe I’ll just turn my collar up…”

“Oi, yeah, that’s a good look.” She smirks.

John glares at Sherlock, responsible for the marks. “Works for him.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t got his neck.” Harry grins. “And you haven’t got his initials spelled out on yours, either. Just a little mark, barely noticeable. I was just winding you up.” John sighs and his shoulders sag with relief. “Not that you seem to need much winding,” she adds.

John remembers why he headed over here in the first place. “Yes, well. About that.. Look, we have to talk. Sally is pretty, but she’s one of the cruelest people I’ve ever known. She can be vicious. And you just can’t --“

Harry cuts him off. “You remind me of Dad, when you’re drunk and lecturing me about what I can and can’t do.” She’s smiling, but it’s not friendly. John is stunned by her accusation. “And you’re obviously overreacting. I don’t know what issue you have with her, but she’s delightful. She’s smart and funny and can’t sing worth crap but is totally game to try anyway, and I like her better than I like you right now. Here, hold this.” She hands him the headless snowman biscuit, then strides over to the door, where Sally has just walked back in. She grabs Sally by the arm, maneuvers her gently to a particular spot on the wall, gestures upward, and then kisses her.

John doesn’t really get to see how Sally responds, because he’s too busy punching his fist -- and the crumbling body of a headless snowman -- through the wall of the living room and storming out of the flat.

* * * 

“That’s an effective way to disband a social gathering,” Sherlock comments, sitting down next to him. “I shall have to remember it.”

John doesn’t respond, other than to intensify the glower he is directing toward his shoes, and to make his pursed lips even pursier. 

“How’s your fist?”

John opens and closes it, which hurts a bit, but in a satisfying sort of way. 

“One would think from your continued silence that your anger was directed at me.”

John kicks a pebble, and it skitters across the walkway.

“However, seeing as how you came to the same bench where you found me after I learned about Sherrinford, you must have expected to be found.”

John uncrosses his arms and recrosses them in the other direction.

“Therefore, I deduce that you wished me to find you so you could yell at me. Do proceed.”

John heaves a very put-upon sigh. “Mistletoe,” he announces grimly.

Sherlock blinks. “ _Viscus album_.” He says it a bit questioningly.

“It was your fault.”

Sherlock cocks his head. “Mistletoe was? I’m not sure what misguided folk botany theory you are laboring under, but I assure you that mistletoe has been around as a species since well before my --”

John cuts him off. “You arse. It was your fault it was on the wall.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “I told you I was drying plants for an experiment. I fail to see why the presence of that species should be cause for concern, or relevant to your current mood, which I had thought to have been elicited by your sister’s recent oscular activities.”

John stares at him. “You’ve deleted mistletoe, haven’t you?”

“No, John, do pay attention. I just told you -- its Latin name is _viscus album_ , it’s commonly found in --”

“You deleted the fact that people use standing beneath it as an excuse to kiss one another.”

“What? Oh. Yes, I suppose I did.” Sherlock peers out at the dark waters of the Thames for a while in silence. “I didn’t forget the nutmeg grater in the first place, though.” John doesn’t respond. “And I didn’t choose to have a sister with appalling disregard for good taste and reason.”

“People who live in houses surveilled by Mycroft shouldn’t throw stones,” John observes. 

Sherlock grunts sourly. Finally: “Lestrade said Dimmock’s been stumped on a case recently. Want to go convince him to share?”

John jumps up gratefully. “Yes, let’s.”

* * *

He and Harry are sitting with mugs of coffee on the sofa, and Sherlock has recently left the flat with a mace -- not the spray, nor the spice that is similar to nutmeg but which doesn’t, so far as John knows, have a dedicated grater, but an actual metal ball on a stick -- and it’s just like old times at 221B, except a lot more tense. At least on his part. Harry looks annoyingly calm.

“All right, lecture me then,” Harry says with a small smile.

He shakes his head. “I don’t want to be like Dad,” he says with a frown.

“Oh, go on then.” She gives a small laugh. “You know you want to. Anyway, you’re sober now, at least.”

John sighs. “Why did you do that? You knew I was about to tell you exactly why you shouldn’t snog her.”

“Well, yeah, but I definitely didn’t want to snog her after I knew there were good reasons not to.” She frowns like this should be obvious.

He blinks at the utter unreasoning of this statement. Then he thrusts his chin out and purses his lips. “You look like a duck when you do that, you know,” Harry says helpfully. “But I am sorry you were upset.”

“I do have good reasons, if you’d just listen,” John informs her. “And it’s not too late to undo this.”

“It really is.”

“No, it’s not. You can blame the kiss on the mistletoe, and you can put a stop to it before it goes any further.” He tries to think of an argument that would appeal to Harry. “Besides, I told you, I think she’s straight -- she’s probably rubbish in bed with women, even if you could convince her to try.”

“She’s really not, though.”

John stares at her in horror. “Oh, God, Harry. You didn’t.”

“Well, you threw a pretty crap party, you know -- punching the wall and storming out like that, with Sherlock following like a man chasing his shadow. Made things a little awkward. And I’d promised her a good time, told her it would be fine if she came. She actually started apologizing to me after you left. I had to prove to her that it was all right.”

“It wasn’t all right. That’s the point. It was very much not all right. I didn’t want you snogging her, and I most definitely didn’t want you taking her back to your place and --” he waves his hand and wrinkles his nose at his coffee.

“Well, I didn’t, quite.” 

He looks up at her hopefully. “You didn’t?”

“I mean, I didn’t take her back to my place.”

“Her place, then. Where you did… whatever you did... is immaterial. The point is --”

“Oh, good. We did it here.”

 _“Harry!”_

“Not _here_ here -- not the sofa.”

John is making inarticulate strangled noises now and trying to remember how breathing works.

“Oh, and not your bed, either -- don’t worry. Well, not your current bed. We went upstairs to your old one.”

“Jesus, Harry,” he gasps finally. “This is _our flat_. And that’s still _my bed_.”

“Well, yeah. But you didn’t seem like you were going to come back any time soon, and I didn’t really have a choice. I had to distract her before she apologized any more and ran off. You can’t get a girl back after she thinks she’s embarrassed herself.”

He blinks at her a few more times, then laughs helplessly. He laughs harder and harder at the sheer Harriness of the entire thing, and she’s giggling too, and then she snorts loudly and it sets them both off again.

FInally: “You are such an arse.”

“I know,” she says, finally sounding a little apologetic. “I did change the sheets, though.” 

He shakes his head and laughs again. He supposes there are worse things in the world than his sister having a one-night stand with Sally Donovan, even if it will make crime scenes a bit awkward for a while. They got past the awkwardness of Sherlock snogging John for the first time next to a corpse, and they’ll get past this as well.

“I’m seeing her again tomorrow,” she says.

He groans. “Oh, Harry.”

“Sorry, John.” She shrugs. “She’s smart, she’s thoughtful, and she’s gorgeous. And it’s been ages since Angie -- it’s time to move on. Besides, you would not believe the things Sally can do with her tongue.”

“Oh, fuck. Shut _up_ , Harry.” He covers his ears and glares at her smirking face. “You’re my sister.”

“Oh, relax. I don’t get fussed about you and Sherlock doing whatever things you do with your bits.”

“Ugh. You should be more fussed. I don’t know how you can even say that.” 

She grins and shrugs. “Maybe I just imagine you and Sherlock as girls.” 

He shudders. “If you do, I don’t want to know.” 

She laughs. “Or maybe I can just keep a straight face better than you can and like getting on your nerves.”

He rubs his forehead. “Yeah, you know how to do that, all right.”

She reaches out and pats his knee. “I am sorry for deliberately ignoring your warnings about her. Did she turn you down for a date, or something?”

He glowers. “No. She’s been a right arse to Sherlock, though.”

“Ohhhh. Right. No wonder she has your hackles up. Did he deserve it?”

John doesn’t entirely know, but he suspects the answer is probably yes. Sherlock usually deserves it. So instead he says, “I hope you’re not serious about her.”

“Well, we’ve only been on two dates and slept together once -- well, three times if you’re counting each bout separately --” she keeps talking over his angry shout “-- so we’re hardly serious yet. But I do like her.”

He sighs again. “Why Sally, though?” He asks plaintively. “It could have been anyone else, really.” An alarming thought occurs to him. “Besides, weren’t we going to spend Christmas together? You can’t still be seeing her then -- it’ll ruin everything.”

Harry stares at him for a long moment. “Well. We’re not the ones punching walls,” she says finally. “Yes; I still want to spend Christmas with you. We should finalize our plans, by the way -- I’ll have my work schedule sorted late next week, and I’ll call you. Anyway, I’m not seeing Sally to upset you, you know. It’s not like I chose her to piss you off. It just works out that way, sometimes. You know that. I mean, why Sherlock? Isn’t it inconvenient to date someone who is terribly rude to me and all your friends?”

John doesn’t really have a good answer for that. He hides his scowl in his mug. 

“Anyway,” she brightens, “Speaking of Sherlock, how are things going with you two? Did you ever find out what that rope was for -- the one he brought home last time I was here for coffee?”

John turns bright red and is successfully distracted from Sally, for the moment.

* * *

Two weeks later, John walks into the flat and half sits, half collapses, onto the sofa. 

Sherlock stops tuning his violin to look him over. “Yes, I’ll come with you to your parents’ for Christmas.”

John stares, then nods. “Thanks. How--?” 

“You’re nervous. Estranged from your parents, clearly, as you’ve never made mention of them. But this year they’ve reached out. To Harry, as well; you normally would have followed this news with a drink, but instead you’ve had several coffees and talked it over with her. She’s persuaded you to go.”

John nods again. “All correct.”

“But something else is bothering you. You’re rubbing your forehead -- there’s something you don’t want to tell me. You don’t want me to come, due to your parents’ homophobia? No, they’ve gotten past that; that’s not the source of the estrangement -- ah, something to do with Harry’s drinking, then. Your parents were in denial about her problem, perhaps. All right, then; you do want me there, but you’re worried I won’t come. Because -- ah, of course. Harry is bringing Sally.”

John half sighs, half groans. “I hoped she would have gotten over that by now. Or that it would be just a casual thing -- not worthy of our first family Christmas in years. And it’s for two days, too.” He grimaces.

“You tried to talk Harry out of bringing her, didn’t you?”

“Yes, of course, but no luck.”

“Stupid, John. The best way for you to make Harry do something is to tell her not to.”

John starts to protest, then thinks it through. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” He looks at Sherlock worriedly. 

“Yes, John, of course I’m still coming. I would hardly pass up the opportunity to observe the people who provided your genetic material and shaped your childhood.”

John sighs with relief. “Just Mum, I’m afraid. Dad passed while I was at uni.”

Sherlock frowns. “Of course. I should have known from the fact that you have his pocket watch.” John sighs, but doesn’t bother to ask when or why Sherlock was going through his boxes of old possessions. Then Sherlock puts down his violin and says, “Worrying is dull.” And he gives John better things to think about.

* * *

When John and Sherlock arrive, John sees from Harry’s car in front of the house that she and Sally have preceded them. On the front step, he sucks in a breath, squares his shoulders, and rings the bell. His mother meets them at the door, all smiles and hugs during introductions, and then immediately turns to John with an, “You’re looking underfed, dear. Come in and put your coats down, and have a bite to eat.” It’s exactly what she always says -- just as if he’d never stopped coming home for Christmas; as if he hadn’t just returned home with a man in tow; as if that man weren’t the most extraordinary man living. Sherlock watches her silently, for once saying nothing, and John relaxes just the slightest bit.

Inside, Sherlock immediately disappears to go find John’s room and presumably deduce all his childhood triumphs and humiliations. John follows Mrs. Watson to the kitchen, where Harry gives him a quick hug before returning to an explanation to her mother of why exactly she doesn’t want to eat bourbon-baked ham or have a cocktail before dinner. John’s fists clench, but he lets Harry sort it out. Instead, he grabs a couple beers and flees, taking the opportunity to find Sally for a chat.

He finds her in the sitting room, looking at the tree and clearly feeling uncomfortable. She eyes him warily as he hands her a beer -- Harry may be abstaining, but he can’t face this unfortified -- and sits next to her on the sofa. “It’s time for the ‘If you hurt her, I’ll kill you’ talk, isn’t it?” 

John looks at her in surprise. “Christ, no. Harry can take care of herself better than I can. It’s Sherlock we need to talk about.”

“Oh.” 

They sit there eyeing each other uneasily for a bit, and despite having brought it up, John can’t quite think how to begin. Finally, he tries, “I’d rather you didn’t call him a freak.”

Sally looks at him, then looks out the window. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s not exactly normal,” she says quietly.

John doesn’t smile. “I know. But it’s unkind. And I think it gets to him, even if he doesn’t show it.”

Sally huffs a laugh. “Yes, well. He’s so _kind_ , himself.”

John sighs. “I know.”

“The first time Lestrade brought him in, you know.” Sally says. “The first time, it was for a dead boy. Just a kid, just fifteen. His parents were there, sobbing.” She turns to look at John. “He jumped up and down. Right there in front of them. He jumped up and down and laughed and told us it was brilliant. And I was the one who had to try to explain to his parents that no, we wanted him to be there. 

“He was entirely unapologetic, too, afterward. He said, ‘Only small minds would be so distracted by grief as to miss the elegance and craftsmanship of a murder like this one.’” She raises an eyebrow.

John swallows and nods. There’s really no defending that. “I think his views on grief have changed, recently.” He has a hard time imagining Sherlock being quite so callous toward loss, after Sherrinford.

Sally shrugs. “I’m not saying he’s not brilliant. He is, that’s certain. But you know, I’m not so shabby myself -- a lot of us aren’t. And we’ve got training, too -- we do things right. But we often don’t get a fair crack at it. Lestrade just…” she shakes her head. “He relies on him too much. I guess it’s fine for him -- he’s already made DI. But there’s some of us who have been working hard for years, solving cases and not always getting recognized, and there’s no hope for us with him turning up and solving the flashy ones, the ones that get all the attention, while we’re there in the background doing the hard work.” She takes a breath. “So, you know, it would be nice if he weren’t always a complete wanker to us on top of all that.”

John blows through his lips and runs a hand through his hair. “Yeah, all right. I see that.”

Sally hesitates, then says, finally. “That can’t be the easiest thing for you to hear, though, I suppose. And I do think… he’s much better, with you around. I’ll -- I’ll try not to call him that anymore.”

“Thank you,” John says gratefully. He hesitates. “He doesn’t care about the attention, you know. It’s all about the puzzle. If you’d like, we could try to make sure that some of the credit for his discoveries goes to you, in the future…”

It’s the wrong thing to offer, he realizes immediately as Sally gives him a truly appalled look. “No, that’s -- that’s not the point. Of course I don’t want credit for _his_ work.” She just wants credit for her own. Right. Of course. John sighs.

“Right. Yeah. Sorry. I’ll just… I’ll try to get him to be a little less of an arse.”

“Good,” she says.

They both drink their beers in silence for a bit and listen to Harry and his mother fighting in the kitchen. “So how did your mum react when you first brought Sherlock home?” Sally asks eventually.

“I don’t know,” he says. “This is our first visit.”

She blinks at him. “What? But you’ve been together most of a year.”

“Yes.”

“And she hadn’t met him?”

“She hasn’t seen me in a few years,” he says.

“Wow,” she says. “I wouldn’t have guessed. She was talking about you before you arrived like she just saw you last week.”

“My family is not the best with emotions,” he says with a tight smile.

Sally laughs. “I guess not.”

He notes that Sally is not with her family on Christmas, but decides not to pry into it unless she brings it up. “Mum was always the peacemaker, trying to smooth everything over,” he explains. “She pretended Dad didn’t have a drinking problem right up until his liver failed, and she went right on pretending, with Harry. I got so fed up with it, I stopped spending holidays with them, finally. Stopped talking to Mum, mostly, before I was deployed, and it’s all just been occasional polite phone conversations, since.”

Sally nods. “Harry kept in touch, though? I know she was here not long ago.”

“Yeah, for a while, anyway. They fell out for different reasons -- Mum never got along with Clara. Harry only patched things up earlier this year, after she got out of rehab.”

Sally chews her thumbnail, and John shakes his head. “Mum didn’t dislike Clara because she was a girl. Harry brought girlfriends home before that -- my parents didn’t love it, but they never made a big fuss. I think Mum just didn’t like Clara because she made a big issue of Harry’s drinking and hounded her to stop. Made it hard to pretend it didn’t exist.”

Sally looks slightly relieved. “So you’re not worried, then. About bringing home Sherlock.”

John stares. “Are you kidding? Who wouldn’t be worried about bringing that wanker home?”

They both start laughing, then, and the air clears a bit. “Well. Shall we go rescue Harry, then?” John says at last with a smile, rising to his feet.

“As if anyone needs rescuing less than Harry.” Sally grins, but joins him.

* * *

Dinner as is perhaps only to be expected, is a somewhat awkward affair. Sherlock does a better job than anyone else keeping the conversation going for the first half of the meal -- perhaps because he is eating less food than anyone else -- but since the topics he chooses include trichinosis and the effects of a harpoon on a pig carcass, John’s uncertain whether it’s preferable to silence. 

After an educational discourse on some of the more interesting symptoms of parasitic wasting diseases, Sherlock falls silent for a bit, and Mrs. Watson smiles at John. “Well, dear. Are you still working at the clinic?”

“I fill in sometimes, yeah,” he says. “Mostly, though, I’ve been working with Sherlock.”

She nods. “Excellent. I ran into Mrs. Stratham the other day at the market -- you remember her? used to teach Harriet piano? -- about my son, the doctor. Her granddaughter, Tabitha, has just moved to London, and she’s about your age. You should take her out for a drink sometime. She’d like that. And you’d like her -- very pretty.” 

John and Harry trade consternated glances. Sherlock continues to examine his slice of ham under his pocket magnifying glass. However, after a long pause, he says, without looking up, “Curious. I would have thought it was evident to even the most oblivious person that I am having sex with your son.” 

An even longer, more awkward pause follows. Then Mrs. Watson smiles brightly and says, “Oh, are you homosexual now too, John? Well, I suppose that’s very fashionable, these days.” Sally laughs into her napkin, and Harry laughs outright.

“It’s for the best, really,” she continues. “I was fretting over not having enough guest rooms, and wondering who was going to sleep on the lilo. But I guess we do have enough space, after all.” She glances at Sally. “Unless you and Harry are just friends?”

For once, it’s not John’s turn to do the blushing -- Sally’s cheeks are very pretty when they color up, he thinks for a moment, before he catches himself and firmly puts a stop to that line of thought. “No, no,” Sally says hastily. “We’re not just friends.”

“Well, that’s just fine,” Mrs. Watson says agreeably. “Though I don’t know how you’re supposed to tell, with you young people, these days. When I was growing up, it was only ever men and women together, you know. And they always pretended they weren’t sleeping together until they got married. Cherry cordial, anyone?”

They make it through the rest of dinner and dessert with a minimum of strained moments. They all pitch in to clean up (even Sherlock, though he keeps getting distracted by examining food particles and soap bubbles and is generally not a great deal of help). Afterward, Mrs. Watson pulls out the photo albums.

John and Harry emit a collective groan. “Mum,” John says. “Sherlock and Sally do not want to see all our childhood photos.” Harry nods agreement. 

“Nonsense,” says Sherlock with a slightly manic grin. “Do sit down and show me everything, Mrs. Watson.”

And so she sits on the sofa, with the others clustered around her. She opens the first album and runs her hand along the pages of baby photos. “We have more photos of Harriet, I’m afraid. I think that’s always the way, with the first one. Still, their father was very proud of them both, and he liked to take lots of pictures. When he could get them to hold still, that is.” The photos are full of motion, blurred little bodies, blond hair, and bright smiles. “And just look at that Watson grin on the both of them.”

“That’s funny,” Mrs. Watson muses as she turns past an empty slot, “I can’t think where that one’s gotten to. Still, most of them are here. Oh! Look at these,” she cries with delight, coming upon a page full of naked photos of the Watson children in the bath. John rolls his eyes and looks away.

Sherlock and Sally remain captivated far longer than John expected, and for Sherlock, at least, it seems to not be an act. He watches Mrs. Watson’s face carefully as she gives background on the photos, and he asks questions frequently. “Did John lose a green mitten around this time?” Or, “John got poor marks in history that year, didn’t he?” Mrs. Watson seems completely unperturbed by the strangeness of his questions, and contentedly rattles off answers, along with any fact about her children that passes through her head.

“You know,” she says finally, closing the last album and beaming at them all, “I always thought I’d have a son-in-law and a daughter-in-law. This is just perfect.”

John flushes and mutters, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” But Harry smiles and squeezes their mother’s hand. “Thanks, Mum. It’s nice to have a family Christmas again.”

“Well, let’s all get ready for bed, then,” Mrs. Watson says with a smile. “Santa won’t come until everyone’s asleep, you know.” Harry and John roll their eyes at each other and giggle, while Sherlock looks vaguely like he’s trying to remember who Santa is.

* * *

“Thank you,” John says to Sherlock as they climb into his creaky childhood bed. 

“For what?” 

“For being so decent today. To my family. And to Sally. I was afraid it would all be terribly boring for you.”

Sherlock smiles. “Don’t be ridiculous. It was agonizingly dull, for the most part.”

“Oh. Well, like I said, thanks,” John says, settling into the hollow of Sherlock’s arm.

“You owe me a favor, I believe,” Sherlock murmurs into his ear.

“Yes, I s’pose I do,” John yawns. “I think you’ll like your present tomorrow, though --”

Teeth on his ear put an end to that thought. “I’ll have my present now,” Sherlock growls.

“It’s, um,” John squirms, “under the tree.”

“That’s not the present I want.”

“Sherlock,” John hisses. “We are not… doing whatever you’re thinking of doing… in my childhood bed.”

Suddenly, there is a hand exploring parts of John’s body that are wildly inappropriate unless they are doing exactly what Sherlock was thinking of doing. John makes a strangled noise. “Can’t! Harry’s room is right there --” he gestures to one wall and oh god please let Harry not be having a similar interaction right now with Sally -- “and Mum’s is there.” He flails vaguely in the other direction, still writhing in the grip of Sherlock’s teeth and beneath his unsubtle fingers.

“That didn’t stop you as a teenager, when one of your more adventurous girlfriends would sneak in your window at night,” Sherlock deduces, pausing to pull a bottle of lube from the bag by the side of his bed.

“Well, no,” John allows. “But my bed was just as loud back then. We had to fool around on the floor so that it wouldn’t creak.”

“Excellent.”

“What? No, I’m not shagging on the carpet like a teenager,” John whispers indignantly. 

“All right then, makes no difference to me,” Sherlock says with a smile, deliberately grabbing the headboard and shaking. The bed lets out what can best be described as a yowl, then continues to do so as he repeats the motion.

John sighs, surrenders, and rolls out of the bed onto the carpeted floor.

* * * 

The next morning, over pancakes, Harry’s satisfied grin and Sally’s blush make John think that he and Sherlock were not the only ones who would fail to make Santa’s Nice list based on their actions the night before. Fortunately, there is plausible deniability thanks to the lack of obvious noises. That’s all John asks. That and not using his bed. He glares at Harry again at the memory of her recent inappropriation of 221B, but she just smiles at him around a large and not entirely successfully concealed mouthful of pancake. 

Sherlock correctly guesses the pancake recipe and cooking temperature, and John begins to get the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock could apply his chemistry skills to cooking just fine, if he ever chose to. Which, of course, he won’t -- eating being boring, cooking undoubtedly falls into that category, as well. 

At last, it’s time for presents. John gets a new hand-knit jumper from his mum -- “That explains a lot, actually,” Sally murmurs, and he’s not entirely sure how to take that -- and so does Harry. 

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Watson apologizes to Sally and Sherlock as they open their smaller packages to find knit scarves, “I didn’t know you two were coming till the last minute. I do hope you like tartan,” she says brightly. “I just think it’s so festive.” Sherlock smiles extremely falsely, while Sally does a better job seeming genuine in her thanks.

Harry and John have gone in together on a new phone for their mother, with a data plan that allows for unlimited texting. John agrees with Harry that she will love this once she can be made to understand it, but is dubious about giving their mum the power to reach them anywhere. Still, she is delighted right away -- mostly at the engraved message on the back, from both of them.

Sally and Harry exchange small gifts -- Harry opens a box of her favorite chocolates, while Sally unwraps an album by Eric Clapton that for some reason makes her blush. John has to admit that they seem very happy -- happier than he’s ever seen Sally, certainly -- and very taken with each other. He almost finds himself hoping it works out.

Sherlock doesn’t give anyone gifts. John gives him tickets to the opera, and is rewarded for the humiliation of having to call Mycroft for ideas by the sight of Sherlock looking absurdly baffled and grateful, his face lit up like a little boy’s on, well, Christmas.

He and Harry trade gifts last. He gets her the Blu-Ray edition of _Bend it Like Beckham_. He also slips into the case a DVD he burned featuring some videos off of YouTube which manage to cleverly imply that the two female leads from that movie actually ended up together romantically, instead of with boys -- he thinks Harry will like that, though he doesn’t tell her what’s on that disc. Not in front of Mum and everyone.

“Open yours now,” Harry tells him with a grin. So he does. Inside his package, he finds a framed photo of Harry Watson, age 5, enthusiastically hugging/tackling John Watson, age 2, and planting a huge kiss on his cheek as they fall to the floor. 

“Oh, that’s where that one got to,” Mrs. Watson tuts. “Harry, you should have asked -- did you take it last time you visited? You must have. Doesn’t it look nice, though?”

John flips the frame over, and finds that on the back it says, “To the best Little Brother anyone could ask for. Thank you for a wonderful year, and here’s to many more. Always, Harry” 

John’s eyes are wet, and he looks up just in time to set the frame aside before Harry tackles him again (with rather more skill and practice than in the photo). “You git, you’re not supposed to cry,” she says cheerfully. He suffers her knocking him to the floor and pinning him there, but only because she’s got a high impression of her rugby skills, and he doesn’t want to disabuse her of the notion that she can overpower him. It wouldn’t be polite, on Christmas. “I just thought you might want something to cover certain new holes in your wall.” she smirks, holding him down.

Eventually, she removes the knee that has somehow found its way into his back and helps him up, grinning. As she does so, and as Mrs. Watson tuts over them and leaves the room to go fetch a bin for the wrapping paper , Sally’s phone rings.

“Here, give it to me,” Sherlock says, grabbing it from her hand. Sally, startled, opens her mouth to protest, but he’s already answered it.

“Ah, Anderson. Your wife’s kicked you out, obviously, and your other girlfriend is of course away in Cornwall for the holidays. You’re calling to see what Sergeant Donovan is up to, and if you can grovel your way back into her good graces and maybe get a leg over on Christmas. However, I’m pleased to inform you that she’s found a partner whose face is far less off-putting, and whose IQ is well above that of an average garden vole. Not to mention that she is far more attentive to Sally’s needs in bed, judging from her contentment this morning and from the pristine state of your own knees each time your wife was out of town and she stayed over.” John is so very glad that his mother is out of the room, and he only has to avoid Harry’s and Sally’s eyes at that. “Which I’m sure would also be of interest to the new girl on the force that you’ve also started flirting with, wouldn’t it?

“Ah, he hung up. Shame,” Sherlock says, handing the phone back to Sally. 

Sally stares at him. “I could have handled that myself,” she says, but it’s a mild protest, and her tone is friendly, if a little off-guard.

“Well, yes, of course you could,” he says. “But you wouldn’t have known to add that about the new girl, would you? Now, with any luck, he’ll be sufficiently humiliated and worried about gossip to transfer off Lestrade’s team.” He smiles widely. “Happy Christmas to us all.”

“You’re such a freak,” she says, but with a genuine smile, which Sherlock genuinely returns, so that John can’t really bring himself to mind. He is a freak. But he’s John’s freak, and he’s happy right now. 

Then Sally’s phone rings again, and despite what everyone thinks -- everyone except Sherlock, of course, as he’ll insist loudly later -- it’s not Anderson this time. Sally answers and is soon jotting down notes on some discarded wrapping paper while Sherlock looks on eagerly.

“A murder!” he says, jumping up in the air excitedly as Sally hangs up. “Now it really is Christmas!” As Sally shakes her head and reaches for her jacket, and Harry shouts “ _Yes!_ ” and prepares excitedly for her second ever crime scene, and John runs into the kitchen to tell their mother to hold dinner for them (and to grab a nutmeg grater, because you never know), he looks over his shoulder and shares a Watson grin with Harry. It appears Christmas hasn’t been ruined after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank [Saathi1013](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Saathi1013) for asking me about shipping stats involving Sally, because looking into that gave me this plotbunny. This lead me to [prompt this story](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/post/67313909118/things-i-suddenly-desperately-want), and then almost immediately talk myself into filling it. :)
> 
> All my gratitude to Lisa E., Amy P., [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy), and [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas) for very helpful feedback, and for cheering me on, as always. You guys are the best. And a big thanks to [jmathieson](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jmathieson/pseuds/Jo) for a Britpick! (I am so excited to have her help catching my Americanisms; all remaining errors are entirely my fault, as John might put it.)
> 
> * * * 
> 
> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).


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